


awakened

by closet_monster



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Dissociation, F/M, Fear, Heavy Angst, Sad, Thought Projection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closet_monster/pseuds/closet_monster
Summary: She comes with the full moon. With her there's rage, then pain, then tears. There's nothing. Some irrational fear.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	awakened

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ATTENTION. I'm threading this ficlet under the eyes of dissociation. It's a lot of confusion and the strangest spiralling thoughts. Everything runs so wild and everywhere, there's no telling where it's going. Nothing makes sense. I started this unsuspecting and realized that's exactly what it is. This character goes through a shit ton of dissociation in canon. This might be confusing as fuck. It's why I'm explaining. Anyway... Oh and happy new years I suppose! It's not the day yet but it's coming for sure. Have fun! Take care! Happy you're still being alive

Trouble always came in the middle of the night.

No matter what her bright eyed fool of a sister screeched about as she was cradled in her husband's loving arms — the night wasn't just about a beautiful dreaming sky of possibilities, a mantle of darkness to cover all hurt, peace and safety to rest and renew.

The night was haunting silence taunted by rebelling creatures blinking in the dark. It was for biting melancholic cold and impending change. The night was made for inescapable trials that would stain your soul irreversibly and leave you a different person by the time dawn broke and morning came. Night was danger, sadness, it was the end, it was freezing steel locked on her spine ever since she was a little girl, summoned from rest to fend something dreadful off.

The great Mother Death, filthy mercenaries charging debt, gigantic monsters of golden manes, an axe bearing rapist, pointed eared men in beautifully forged armors, with horrifying smirks stretching over strangely pointed teeth and too many hands who'd drag her from bed and condemn her life. It was in a melted god who bathed her body before deciding upon ravaging it. And she was the tapestry of all life, yards of the finest sparkling crimson thread that stretched so far into eternity, her eyes could no longer see.

Night was war, night was disgrace. The moon left her restless like the ocean, like the howling wolves across Illyria, it's bewildered birds of prey.

In a full moon, when the night was the most romantic and wicked, everything changed. Nothing became something and whatever was hidden somewhere, came to surface like a blooming rose. All that was clear, became vibrant and violent like a dooming threat. The full moon was for wildlings, precisely because it essentially made them. Ships sunk on high sea, beasts broke through their bones and skin, anger took over all men.

And Nesta, blood boiling under her own skin, was a feverish nightmare of an impending storm. A thick purple cloud crossing one of their highest mountains; the one where females went to pray every few months. She was a hissing hellcat, narrowed eyes looking for an escape, a disaster to come.

Illyrians were superstitious: Cassian knew to be careful in full moons. He knew, or at least chuckled to himself, that it left  _ her _ as uneasy as it did the dogs outside. It was supposed to be a joke, but somewhere, he knew it was true. Knew it was a bad day to poke her wounds, that it was a day to simply let her be. And Nesta, as she locks herself in her bedroom, shaking so badly that she could barely feel any tears, fell to bed with boiling blood and freezing skin.

For the night, she had teared herself with what the humans would like to call a severe case of female hysterics — countless women had ended up chained to their beds for much less, she knew that much.

Despite the fame, she could be quite level headed. Nesta wasn't one for screaming matches. She was kin to discussions and cold blooded offenses, butchering others to very slim stripes of shameful skin and taking the brunt of all hits with a stone cold face. Though it was coiled in her bones like marrow, Nesta was not one to act on her highly flaming rage.

In fact, clutching to her poisonous feelings was second nature at worst. Losing her marbles had to be a new thing: screaming so loud that her words were intelligible. She also had a faint memory of trying to hit Cassian with a broom.

The funny thing was, she had no idea why.

It wouldn't be the first time bad memories locked themselves away: there were things in life that Nesta simply couldn't force herself to remember. And screaming herself hoarse, she could feel the words slipping away just as fast as they left her lips.

Lying on her back, shaking as badly as a leaf, her breathing shallow and thick, Nesta was so distressed that she couldn't even tell what had actually happened. She couldn't remember what the fight had been about, what they both had said, why she had snapped in the first place — or if he did. It hadn't been five minutes, and all Nesta could remember as she shook and shook over the bed was Cassian's utterly broken expression as she said something awful which her mind could not yet remember.

She recalls this, and only this: how his face broke and broke, and that she only stopped because it seemed impossible to make him break even more. It had to be enough.

Yet, she couldn't tell what her words had been. What on earth did she say? Some slightly aware part of her consciousness was still angry and convinced that she had done no wrong. Another portion was overridden with guilt, wishing she'd never opened her mouth at all — seeing Cassian hurt made something foul twist in her chest. And the rest, however much it was, was terrified.

Again, she couldn't bear to remember why. What did she say that warranted trembling and crying like a hopeless child?  _ It'd been years. _

She doesn't like it.

Nesta doesn't like it that she knows Cassian can hear her crying and sobbing across the cabin. Doesn't like it that she can hear his quiet ruffling in the kitchen, where the fight had begun and ended. Didn't like that she had no idea of what to do next or how to calm down. And her one constant fear, one that had cursed her ever since her father lost their wealth to the sea.

Nesta was terrified that she was about to lose another home.

A constant thought that was always swimming in shallow waters by her mind, now closer than it's ever been for a while. Nesta had been torn away from every single one of her homes, even if they were hers and hers alone. Now, she had absolutely nothing. Not even an idea of what to do next. If Cassian came upstairs to throw her out, where would she even go? She barely owned her own torn dresses and worn out shoes. Nesta couldn't winnow, couldn't send away letters, or read minds.

Would Cassian push her through the doors, or would he call for Feyre to take her away? And what could her sister possibly do? Throw her to the obsidian cursed city under the mountain, where all males were vile and females known to keep quiet?

Not that she was inclined to making a ruckus, but you'd never know. Keeping her chin low wasn't customary.

Nesta had no idea of how long it took to quiet down the tears. It came after so much shaking, her flesh was detached from the bones. After so much confusion, she was nothing but anger and fear. Until there was nothing else to do other than pushing herself off the bed with a scowl and scrambling to her feet.

She was right, or had to be. Whatever she and Cassian had argued about, she must have been terribly right and it was a good thing he  _ felt _ it. He deserved some taste of it — though it eats at her insides that he really didn't; the way his face fell almost sent her falling along to pick it up. But Nesta  _ knows _ she wouldn't snap without reason: most days she wouldn't bother to look up or open her mouth, even if it was long coming. It could only have been his damned fault.

It didn't make anything better.

Feelings weren't a great look. While Nesta was something of a muse when it came to holding them back, she knew nothing of what to do when they came out. It had never come to  _ this. _ Nesta didn't know how long crying should take or how it should be. If her ugly choking was too unladylike or if her high pitched hiccups were too childish. If Cassian was scowling at what he could hear from the kitchen, still mulling over whatever she had said.

Prone to it, Nesta didn't know what dissociation really was or that it took over the greatest chunk of her life. That it changed colors and hours and memories and took all of reality apart. Couldn't tell sinking apart from sulking. When her limbs move and they tremble: out of the bedroom and to the bath, to clean herself and feel something new.

Why did she say anything?

_ Cassian. _ His face.

It was his fault though.

How? If she couldn't remember a word...

Cassian wouldn't throw her out, would he?

Would Feyre come pick her up or would she wander through the mountains an abandoned roofless mistress?

One thing was for sure. For all of her pride, Nesta would still leave before being asked out. That… That hypocritical brute! For all he preached on for being such an open hearted saint, Cassian couldn't bear to live a day without lying through his teeth. He was a liar and a deceiver: he trusted and believed no one, and then was outraged when she didn't either. Why? Was it so unthinkable the prospect that she didn't trust her heart in his hands? Where did it come from? Was it from the first or second or fifth time he kept breaking promises and stomping over her feelings in order to guard his own?

He was a selfish male, he was ruthless and suspecting and cruel. The Lord of Bloodshed had been given his name — Cassian had earned every single letter of the title. It was more than manslaughter, more than dried copper blood dusting every inch of his stretching soul, guilty and innocent alike. He was loved, so loved, because he was good sharing a bottle of wine, didn't bother with elite, and was more than willing to shed his life for anyone's hopeless cause. It was easy to be loved when one's entire life came to servitude — it was hard to be loved when one had nothing to offer. Because when the only things one had to share were sickly threatening beauty, unknown vicious magic and accessing eyes that prickled skin, there was no love to be tried.

Then, they'd rather hide a female in the mountains where through the wind, no one could hear her.

Where her existence was easy to be forgotten, placed in the hands of a winged saint who'd rather burn to a crisp rather than face his wrongs or disarm himself for one single exchange. The most loveable soul, who stood in a fight stance with balled fists and narrowed eyes, daring her to break first. That fuck—

"Nesta?"

Like a startled cat, she jumped under the spraying water with a painful leap in her rapidly beating heart.

"I'm bathing."

Screaming herself hoarse, Nesta didn't have much of a voice. Those were nothing other than oddly sounding syllables rasped out. She wasn't even sure he could understand any of it, and didn't really care if he did at all.

"I'm waiting for you." 

The one thing she most definitely didn't want to hear.

Nesta didn't want to hear anything and she didn't want to talk. Or look at that handsome melancholic face again, especially knowing she was entirely at fault. Couldn't. Didn't want to think upon his cold emotionless voice, where she could pick no feelings to wonder upon. Cassian was no better than her: that's why they'd be so good to bite at each other's heads. Under his guise of a sweet male, the bastard son of a bitch was equally as vicious, a watchful serpent bathing under the sun.

And she cared. Sadly. Somewhere. That someday,  _ him _ and  _ her _ was a dreamy idea so close to complexion, and the brush of a wind could take it all away until they were irreversibly undone. Cassian had lived, but Nesta could no longer be the same. Until she was broken and he bitter, and that they couldn't exist without resenting each other for an hour. That still, everyday, she wondered if he had eaten or trained or flown. If he'd care for the bruises she still itched to tend, that she fretted when he took too long to come home, wondering if he was cold or endangered outside. That she cared he was upset when she was the one crying herself hoarse.

And why — what was he really waiting for? A ceremonial call out, a dramatic fight, losing marbles on his own… Or could he… Apologize? Was  _ that _ a possibility. Was Cassian capable of it? She couldn't believe it for a second. And again why, why did she care? Was it because an apology meant  _ he _ cared? As selfishly as him, Nesta shrugged it off and buried it deep, letting the water wash away the new hot tears sliding from her too red eyes. Hope meant impending disappointment and pain, and Nesta couldn't bear to be shredded by him any longer.

She guarded her heart like he did his own, and it was only her right.

Against her very instinct, she came out.

However long it took. Sooner than what she would have wanted, even though it was undeniably long, Nesta made to wrap herself in a bathing robe, face still a swollen mess of redness and incessantly falling tears. Steeled like a sword, even if she was only a trembling crying girl, rolled like a bundle in a robe large enough for a hulking winged male — it was Cassian's, it was Cassian's — Nesta raised her chin and tempered herself to hear that she was being given up on at last. Again.

By the last person she had.

She wanted to scream again — and then sink some more.

She could have used a bottle of rum, could have used the nauseating feeling of lying on her back with so much alcohol in her system that her body sunk into the mattress a lot deeper than what it possibly could. Nesta missed the feeling of being so out of her mind, her worries were no more pressing than a leaping dragonfly dazzled by a flickering purple fae light or the way the wind licked at her skin as it swept in by the wide open windows.

Nesta missed being nothing and no one, where her pain was only her own. Where her tragedy afflicted no one and grief drowned to itself unheard.

But there he is, leaning on his shoulder when she opens the door. His own suspecting glassy eyes only meet hers for the briefest of seconds, too fast for her to guess if that was liquid emotion lining them. There was softness in his cheeks, then tension on his lips. Tension on his shoulders, on his crossed arms.

"Come on." He tips his chin to her bedroom, like it's obvious where to. "Let's talk."

_ No. _

But she doesn't say that.

Nesta schooled her face into an impassive mask of annoyance, because it's what comes easier, and she lets herself be guided through the short corridor of the tiny wooden house where she had made a home.

Was she really about to be thrown out? Nesta just wanted a place where she could stay…

There's a chair before the window, the one where he sits. Either because sitting in her bed was too much, or because he didn't want a nearly naked Nesta to sit before a window where any flying male could see her. She considers both before lowering herself in the corner of the bed, careful not to get anything wet, and made herself bore her eyes into his.

Like every single time, it's an experience. Looking into his eyes leads one to see just about  _ everything else. _ In the smallest of places, Nesta can see the world and then every feeling that's ever prickled her skin — he had that effect, and she wondered if by hers, he felt the same. Or, if in exchange, Cassian stared down and only saw a miserable wet duckling of icy red eyes, if he thought her shallow and a fool.

Though she had no reason to care.

"What was that about?" He gives in when she doesn't, his voice is nothing but sadness and concern. Pure defeat.

That'd been them for a long time.

"What?"

It comes back to her attention that she had swung at him with a broom not too long ago. She can't tell why.

"I know you're upset. You can be, that's fine. I just… Didn't realize how much."

Nesta has nothing to say to that. In spirit of fairness, she can hardly tell what it is that they are discussing. Her walls won't budge and looking closely, her eyes hurt. Being hysterical was exhausting and she was so very tired — why couldn't he just rush back to the screaming?

"Nesta."

_ I'm listening. I just have nothing to say. _

"What." 

"We should talk about…" He trails off, as awkwardly as he could be, and Nesta tries not to cringe at that. He does.  _ "If you could just tell me. _ Do you at least know what you need?"

She wants to admit she can't remember. It's right there, sweetening the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't say it. And thankfully, because her face was as bewildered as she felt, Cassian finally caught the hint that something was slightly not right — and she, that he was not angry. His questions were brushed away quite easily and she was happy for that.

"Are you alright?" Concern, more concern, she hates being under his eyes. It's the worst thing, that they see her.

"No." The syllable came floating out as lightly as a plume. Nesta didn't know why she'd admit to that, but it's how it goes.

_ "Oh." _

Should she apologize for trying to hit him with a broom?

"Do you know what's worse? Or something that we can fix right now? Nesta."

A longer memory comes to light, of him bracing the long wooden cable with both hands and holding her back. His strength so absurd, it felt like she was being attacked instead. He didn't tear it off her hands, which was so much worse: screaming into his face from so up close, she could see the way his eyes fell millimeter by millimeter.

But she wouldn't apologize for a thing without knowing what she was screaming for in the first place. Right?

"Or is there something you need? Anything?"

"I'm sorry."

She wasn't sorry about her reasons, which she could not yet remember, but she was sorry about doing it at all. Then, sorry for the entirety of the damned year and the rest of her life. Things would have been easier if…

Anything to lessen her pain and drive him away. Was that what it took?

"You didn't do anything wrong."

She could argue on the contrary, but it would do nothing to her case.

What was the case?

The night. Night was dangerous and here, night was all. Night made her shiver, then startle, then bite. The full moon was a beast, like an element of red eyes, whispering to the wind and sending color anywhere it couldn't find light. And her, so infuriated and choked up in too much anguish, sizzled like harsh rain against tilled roof or boiling water in a kettle. She was a warning, a threat, an ultimatum.

In the full moon Nesta could let loose, could free herself of all, could rage and roar and seek. In a full moon, the tiniest most inoffensive of taunts made her charge to a legendary general with nothing but a broom in hands.

She was  _ not _ sorry. It  _ was _ his fault. Still, it was nothing short of mortifying what she had said and done. Gone hysterical for no more than a taunt.

"I flustered myself. I am deeply ashamed of it." Nesta tries to reason, keeping to short words as they are emotionless and keep feelings down. More elaborate phrases required more thinking, and that would do no good. "Leave me to it."

"There's no shame…"

"If you have anything to say, do it at once."

There is no reasoning. Nesta can't stand to speak without either undoing herself in more tears or raging away the little bit of voice her throat still stands to offer. She's not in any shape to deal with either. And Cassian, his eyes reflect concern, sadness, then anger. Recognition. Fire,  _ amusement! _ More anger. More concern. What would he do if she cried before his eyes?

"You have issues."

It makes her want to vomit, rage some more. If she had any strength for it. Cassian stands from his chair in a fluid soundless movement, and when she dares to look into his eyes, there's a somewhat pleasant surprise to be found: there's only something close to peace in his face. Not in it's usual hopeless, defeated form. The good kind.

"I do, too."

Recognition.

_ "Oh." _ She's so foolish...

"I understand." He can't possibly — "Don't be ashamed, sweetheart. Rest. And  _ please, _ don't cry anymore."

She tries not to watch him walk out, softly pushing the door shut. Tries not to hear his shuffling across the cabin, then when he goes wash. There's the wind, the creaking wood, the animals outside. The night whistles. And the full moon, Nesta looks before pulling the curtains to change, bright and silver.

Truth, raw and painful, the moon was a flesh wound waiting to be soothed, crooning in the dark.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> That..... Yeah, that. It's confusing over here. I don't know if you can enjoy something like this, but... Yeah. Cool. Talk to me if anything.


End file.
